Tag: creative writing

poison in the form of skin

 

oh sweet pea my lips
are fat with your poison
fat with your skin
pressed     the pressing
of skin is a precious
thing and so are your
soiled words hushed
against my neck   against
my neck   I use my breasts
to brace   for efficiency
they hold more than milk
you leak nightshade
all over my sheets   all
over my skin   the muscle
of your hands    the bend
of my muscle under your
hands    fingertips like
oleander petals and I
am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon
silhouette on my thighs
on my thighs   on this
skin love like luck
could be a myth   and me
a drowning siren

smoke

my mouth smolders
fat slow pillows
of milky smoke
rising from my
swollen gums—
the stretch
of jaundice
over my chicklet
teeth, the wait
of it all—
char is coming
and yet
but wait
the romantic sin
stick pushed taught
with tea leaves
(yes tea leaves)
my mouth is full
of awake and anger—
the angst of chapped
lips resenting,
purged of adultery
and ache

smoothes

most the time I can’t sleep
and I stare at ceilings
and analyze their anatomies
the anatomies of ceilings
their shade of beige
their dimples
their pockets of vents
and the hum
of their emittance
nothing about love
can fix that
nothing about love
can really fix
anything
but does it soothe?
oh the calm
that smoothes
over my skin
while I sleep
finally sleep
and the resolve
I wake up to
cradled
in my collarbone

a lie

how catholic are you? how un
decided am I? am I?
does the holy ghost live in
basements? does.. is it a
he  a she  an it? does it
rattle the panels to startle?
does it matter what I think?
cause I make blasphemy an art
of syntax, I make that shit
inventive and unless
confined by the mandates
of corporate, I don’t even
mind    is that a lie?

 

I’m a bit behind on NaPoWriMo, but I’m working on it. 🙂

Skin

when I think of peach milk skies at twilight
how snow caked rooftop peaks melt into
matte grey cloud blankets
when I think of how delicate how precious
dove ribs must be
how feathers thread together feel
I know what loss of flight feels
I know sewn skin
ripped skin
how blood bubbles quiet beads
precision
skin
feels

I’m Not Afraid of Heights–poem

 

I don’t trust
myself on those
on-ramps,
all stilted
and looming.
I’m always eyes
on the edge,
counting pores
in concrete.
How cold
is that water
is that air
kissing this
skin with burn
and brackish.
Dizzying, always
thinking about
driving off.
Would those
pores hold?
or snap
from their
hollowed gut.

 

ur qt—a poem

Your fingers licked the grooved
metal strings
and the clicking of
your tongue on the ridges
of the roof of your mouth
strummed the sinews of my skin
in lulling rhythms, built
craters of sighs in my
collarbone. All love
dripping from the length
of your hair and me
hugging my knees
on the edge of your bed.
Babe I live in the linger
of your breathing
on my neck
and you keep dropping
your pick but I don’t
miss a step of song
when you bend
to pick I up. I’m tangled
in the sienna brown
of your sheets and I know
that coffee burnt your
tongue but it didn’t
hold us back.

Steeped

My body’s steeped
in oleander blood
bathing the bodies
in hemlock tea
their petal skin
bowing under teeth
and I am heady
in my silent skin
bent under tongue
sheets licked
with love
liquor
and I am sick
with the
residue
of his sweat
on my lips

Of Course

If I cut open this skin
saline and whiskey
would spill
from the spread
lips
of the wound

maybe some
earl grey
spoiled
milk
the pulp of my lungs

and I’d be
a mess of words
all consonants
and muddled vowels
all why
and how
come come come

come to bed
and warm my blood
everything is
so
so cold here

of course I’m
fine